whose breath embalmed the peaceful labours, and perfumed the air she drew. Thus was the world inviting; and you might have fancied that nature was willing again to array herself in a loveliness, that should be some memorial of her beauty ere yet it was marred by that crime, which stained ourselves and every thing terrestrial. Earth! fit abode, ere while, of angels, but now polluted and defiled!—of angels, erst the companions of our sinless parents-but, now, debarred from intercourse with thy apostate family. It was on such a morning that Gertrude attended the little flock of her father to the uplands. But, while all was thus lovely about her, she had herself attractions and, if ever heart was unconscious of admiration, Gertrude's was-which, to another eye than her's, would have added charms even to the scene of enchantment amidst which she strayed. The sun of her eighteenth summer was shedding its maturing influence on the daughter of Arnold and Margaret. She had parted from childhood, and even was a girl no more. The seasons of lighter years had fled, and she was now on the borders of womanhood; the theme of every tongue among her mountains, though the object of universal admiration, so meekly were her honours worn, that while all confessed her fair, she excited not in the breast of any even the faint emotions of envy. Her form was slender, and in her manner peculiarly graceful, she bore in her mien the dignity of her birth: and while all beheld her humble employment, none could have mistaken the Shepherdess of the Mountains for a peasant's child. The young and the aged alike revered her virtue and beauty; and even those, who knew not her origin, ever made obeisance as they passed her by. They saw that air which bespoke her lineage-for the eye of the rustic is quick to discern the difference of gesture and deportment which distinguish the clown from those conversant with the urbanities of polished life—and while they wondered that she should be tending a little and scattered flock, they thought within themselves, that, surely, she must have been born to a better fate. In her eye, which was lovely as can be "the dark eye of woman," and beamed with mild intelligence, there was withal a look of melancholy which, while it told of secrets yet perhaps latent even to the heart that illumined it, whispered something that denoted a bosom tremblingly alive to another's woes. It was raised to meet you with virgin confidence; and though her cheek might be tinged with the timidity of maiden bashfulness while she beheld you, perhaps an intruder on her retirement, there was,notwithstanding, in its look that sense of female decorum, which would have awed the the tongue of levity into instant silence. In stature she was above middle size, rather over, it might be, than under; and such was the symmetry of her person and the sylph-like elegance of her motions, that you might almost have imagined you contemplated in her form, had you seen her at least moving slowly as often she was wont along the margin of the rivulet, that irrigated the glen, when the moon walked in brightness through beaven, some wandering spirit from Elfin-land, nor would you have felt less inclination to aid her, had she required your assistance, than if she had verily been some hapless fairy, that had lost her way. No knight of chivalry here was necessary for the defence of her girlish innocence: and the eye of every vassal, though no longer her father's, that surveyed her, would have looked on a falchion unscabbarded, had she sought its help. But such sought not Gertrude. She had a firmer arm to lean on than humanity could furnish :-a buckler of surer protection than aught that could be forged on earth. The rose upon her cheek was generally of a vivid hue; and yet, at times, it became so deadly pale, that you would have thought a rude, though unseen hand, had dashed it with some preparative of the tomb. Still it would quickly resume its lustre, and the smile that succeeded, and again brightened it, was perhaps more pleasing, from the very gloom out of which it rose. Such was Gertrude, when eighteen summers had matured her form. Such was she on that morning, when first she was seen by Conrade. THE loveliness of the scenery, the mildness of the air, the melody of the woodlands,-in a word, the serenity of earth and heaven, though not new to the eye or ear, to the heart and feelings, of Gertrude, yet on this occasion, so exquisitely serene was all, invited her to extend the limits of her usual wanderings. Her gentle charge were browsing about her, some in the depth of the glen, where its dark recesses shut them from her view, and some on the sward beside her; some hung on the adjacent rocks, nipping the wild thyme that grew there in abundance, sweetening the breath of morn, and one little lamb-it was said she loved it for Ellen's sake, her mother's early friend, as it had been given to her by that still kind, still attentive creature-one little lamb was feeding from her lap. It had now finished its repast. She had untied the blue silk collar that Ellen had fastened round its neck, and had again returned it, with some additional arrangements, to its place. She had polished the silver bell suspended to it: she had adjusted, more gracefully, as she fancied, the knot that held it she had smoothed some of the folds which it had contracted in the calm, though careless, slumbers of the night: had bathed its tufted forehead in the lucid fountain that bubbled at her feet: had wiped the dews of morning from its snowy fleece; and had laid it down once more to gambol about her path. Her way winded through the most secluded spots of the glen. Now it was concealed amidst the thick foliage of over-arching elm and sycamore: again it opened, in some short turning, to the light of day. Here it was level, or only rising with the gradual acclivity of the hill: there it was almost precipitous, and demanded the daring of some feet, not unhabituated to Alpine ascents. She followed as it led. Her thoughts were wandering with her wandering steps. One while they hovered over scenes, - alas! from which hard fate, so some would deem, had excluded her ;scenes where mirth and revelry had resounded, while the tabret, and viol, and wine, were in their feasts. These a youthful imagination might have casually visited, without calling down the frown of indignation. Yet the records, whence we derive our story, furnish not even an incidental memorial, that their absence elicited from the bosom of Gertrude a passing sigh. Again, her spirit returned to that dear spot, where she had first drawn the breath of life, and round which, hitherto, all her cares and her joys had centered. Reflection could not but ponder future days. Ellen, that faithful friend, was fast descending to the mansions of silence, and her own mother was far from well. She had heard tidings of her family, which had deeply afflicted her; and it was feared that her disorder might eventually prove fatal. Her father, too, began to manifest ailments, the seeds of which had been laid in his early years, amidst the hardships of the camp and the field. There was, however, no immediate prospect of dissolution, and hope, vivid in the breast of Gertrude, promised her his presence and counsel for a long period to come. But she thought, how lonely, how helpless she would be, when all were gone. All human aid, she had reason to believe, would fail her-then where was her heart to rest? To wander on the world, like the fawn, whose mother had been slain by some cruel hunter's hand, without an eye to pity, or an arm to save! One refuge she had, which she knew was steadfast as the everlasting hills, which lifted her from the world below; yet, withal, she could not restrain the tear. Reflections, deeply painful, crowded upon her, and the tribute of dejection would not be represt. Unconscious of the distance to which she had strayed from home, Gertrude seated herself upon a verdant bank that lay along her path. Over her head depended the graceful branches of a birch-tree, whose light leaves were stirring in the morning wind. Sweet was their murmur, and it died on the ear of Gertrude like the voice of some fairy tale. At this moment another tear had fallen, and she had just wiped it away, Another had started, to follow its companion along her cheek, when her attention was attracted by a rustling among the long grass through which her route had led. It was her lamb. The little affectionate creature had pursued her step by step, for it well knew the hand that fed and tended it, and well it loved its mistress. "Is it you, Fanny?" turning to it, she said. And who will feed and attend to thee, Fanny, when the friends of thy poor mistress have left her, and she has gone with them to the grave? Who, Fanny, will then feed and attend to thee? Who will adjust thy little collar, and polish thy silver bell? Poor Fanny! innocent as yet and happy for the sorrows of life have erstwhile not reached to thee-innocent and happy, thou thinkest only of the passing hour. May thy existence glide smoothly, and O may no rude hand ever be lifted against thy blameless life!" -- 66 She was proceeding with the train of reflections to which this incident had given rise, when she was suddenly interrupted by a shrill whistle from the neighbouring eminence. Her heart misgave her. Evils unknown might be impending. She had heard of the outlaw-and Conrade of Col-derg instantly occurred to her. Trembling like the leaf above her, and pale as the moonbeam that yester evening had rested upon the vale, she rose, and snatching up her faithful companion, hastened, as fast as her agitated limbs, could carry her, towards the security of that glen, from which she had recklessly withdrawn But she had to contend with those who, from infancy, had been trained to the mountains; who "Had roam'd the valleys with the browsing flock, In vain then she flew. The steps of her pursuers were already behind her -her burthen dropped from her relaxed hold,-and with one faint shriek, exclaiming, "Protect me, Heaven!" she fell senseless on the ground. Conrade and his lawless associates were at hand; and with the cruel delight of the tiger, when it springs on the antelope bounding over the plain, leaped upon their lovely and defenceless prey. Noon meanwhile had come. It was the usual hour of Gertrude's return from her tender task. Accompanied by her charge, who knew and obeyed her call, she was generally seen ascending the rising ground that lay in front of her father's abode, as the sun of mid-day fell full on the northern declivity of the glen. But to-day, one of the flock was observed-or another, bleating, as if it had missed a friend; and wandering here and there, without any voice to guide it, proclaimed unconsciously some melancholy catastrophe. "Where is Gertrude?" was now the anxious cry, that resounded from the cottage to the farthest limits of the glen. "Gertrude, Gertrude,” echoed from rock to rock; and the sound-so long had been the searchwas already dying on the breeze of evening. Some few of the scattered flock had returned.-The others were still feeding without a monitor to tell them when they strayed, and wondering that the accustomed summons no longer met their ears. All now was terror and dismay. Many, interested in the fate of one so generally beloved, were dispersed over all the adjacent hills-but when night approached, and their enquiries ceased, they had alike to lament the fruitlessness of their endeavours. One by one they revisited the abode lately so happy, but now the seat of mourning and woe: one by one, they returned to tell the same melancholy tale-that their lovely and beloved Gertrude neither in life nor in death was to be found. FROM that moment-and days, and months, and years, in their slow round passed away-no tidings came. Time, untiring and heedless, still held his onward flight. Doubt and uncertainty involved the fate of Ger trude. All that her parents could do was done to trace her-but all in vaint. They had heard of the sudden appearance of Conrade's band in the neighbourhood on the evening preceding the mournful event. But from that hour nothing could be ascertained concerning them. They had had, so rumour said, some disagreement among themselves. Part, in consequence, had withdrawn to the Appennines, where they had united themselves with the banditti that infest those mountains. Others had removed, it was believed, to the most distant fastnesses of the Tyrol; while the remainder, it was thought, had combined with one of those ferocious hordes which render so dangerous the passage of that immense chain which separates France from the Iberian peninsula. Their leader, too, had vanished, Many were the apprehensions, many the surprises of all; but their fears were only uttered in whisper, their conjectures expired upon their lips. His father, indifferent to every thing, had gradually become scarcely human, and was at length swept away by the tide of time, His memorial had perished with him, or was remembered only as of a being who had been. On his dying bed, it was related, he had declared, that a child was living on whom would devolve his titles and possessions. Still, however, no heir claimed his domains; and they were in process of years annexed to the Imperial crown. The glen, too, was changed. Happy it had once been, and peaceful. Morning had risen on it with smiles, as gentle as ever she shed on a world ravaged by sorrow, and stained with crime; and evening had lingered over it with a radiance, as soft as was ever poured upon her native isles. On every side was visible the hand of cultivation, Tree and shrub, herb and flower, knew their places, and adorned each in loveliness the sylvan scene. Now, all was desolation and decay. Distress and anxiety had brought its once blest inmates immaturely to the grave. Margaret first fell a victim. The melancholy intelligence we have previously alluded to had already given her frame a severe shock; and she soon sunk under the sad incertitude of her daughter's fate. Ellen, faithful to the close, never left her. She had nursed her infancy, had tended her maturity, and she watched over her decline. But agonizing as was the pang which tore the maternal bosom of Margaret, Religion shed upon her dying pillow a deep unruffled calm; and she laid her head upon the breast of Ellen-that breast from which she had first drawn the nourishment of life-and without a struggle or a sigh expired. It was not distinctly heard what last she uttered. Ellen thought it was, "Gertrude"-her husband believed it was, "Jesus." But whether the parting moment was darkened by the recollection of her daughter's catastrophe, or brightened by the reminiscence of the Saviour's love, none ever doubted but her end was peace. Ellen, enfeebled as she had long been, and worn out with attendance on her child, soon followed her to rest. She would not remain under the roof of Arnold, however, though earnestly intreated to do so. "No," she said; "I must return and die, where my husband and my baby died. And under the same tree that overshadows them, there also will I repose. It may perhaps, she would observe, be a woman's thought-but I wish, united as I was to them in life, and undivided from them as I shall be in death, that we may rise together, and go hand in hand to judgment.” Nor did Arnold long survive, Bound up as he was in his wife and child, his bereavement seemed to snap, as it were, instantaneously the ties that held him to existence. He had had his sorrows; but he believed them |